
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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FOR HIS COUNTRY 

AND 

GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW 



Works of 


Marshall Saunders 



Rose a Charlitte ♦ 

• ♦ • 

Her Sailor . 

• • ♦ 

Deficient Saints * 

* * • 

For His Country and 

Grandmother 

and the Crow 




L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


212 Summer St.» Boston, Mass, 




1 






FOR HIS COUNTRY 


AND 

GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW 


BY 



MARSHALL SAUNDERS 

T; 


AUTHOR OF 
BEAUTIFUL JOE, ETC.” 


CllustratEti bg 
LOUIS MEYNELL 
and others 



BOSTON 

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 
1900 


1 


50523 


|L.ibrMry of Con^wre«* 
''V^v COFilb RECtUEO 

SEP 22 1900 

Cofynght •ilry 

SECOND COPY. 

0«lw«r«i to 

0R0t« DIVISION, 

SEP 25 1900 




o — 


Copyright, igoo 

By Perry Mason & Company 

80245- 

Copyright, igoo 
By L. C. Page & Company 

(incorporated) 

All rights reserved 


pM )» 


([Tolontal ^prcjss 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co 
Boston, Mass., U. S. A, 



For His Country 
Grandmother and the Crow . 


PAGE 

• 13 

. 41 









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“ ‘ Mademoiselle, you are an American ? ’ ” 

{Courtesy of the Youth's Companion) . . FvOHtispiCCB 

“She went on gathering her sticks” . .18 

‘“I AM FROM California’” . . . .21 
“‘You, TOO, LOVE YOUR COUNTRY!’” . . 27 

“‘There is no hope’” 32 

“He tried to sing with them” . . .36 

“ I SAW SECOND COUSIN GeORGE FOLLOWING 




“He went up SOFTLY BEHIND HIM ” {Courtesy of the 
Youth's Companion ) ...... 


45 

50 


v/ 


“ Rover knew this cry ” {Courtesy of the Youth's Com - 
panion ) . . . . . . . . 5 

“‘I ain’t fit to die,’ cried OLD GeORGE ” . 55 


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FOR HIS COUNTRY 



FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


“ My country ! ’tis of thee, 

Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing ! ” 

Here the singer’s voice broke down, and I 
peered curiously around my corner of the wall. 
He was pacing to and fro on the river-bank — 
a weary-faced lad with pale cheeks and droop- 
ing shoulders. Beyond him a fat French foot- 
man lay asleep on the grass, one hand loosely 
clutching a novel. An elderly goat, grazing 
nearer and nearer the man, kept a wary eye on 
the book, and finally seizing it, devoured it leaf 
by leaf. At this the weary-faced boy did not 
smile, and then I knew there was something 
the matter with him. 

Partly because I wished to console him, 
partly because I was lonely, I continued the 
13 


14 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


song in notes rather more cheerful than his 
own : 

“ Land where my fathers died, 

Land of the pilgrims’ pride, 

From every mountainside 
Let freedom ring ! ” 

The boy stood stock-still, only moving his 
head slightly after the manner of a bird listen- 
ing to a pleasant strain. When I finished he 
came toward me, cap in hand. 

“ Mademoiselle, you are an American .? ” 

“ No, my boy. I am a Canadian.” 

That’s next best,” he said, politely. 

‘‘ It’s better,” I rejoined, smiling. 

“ Nothing is better than being an American.” 

“ You are patriotic,” I observed. 

“ If your ancestors fought with Indians, and 
English and rebels, and if you expect to die for 
your country, you ought to be patriotic.” 

I surveyed him curiously. He was too grave 
and joyless for a boy in a normal condition. 
“ In youth one does not usually speak of dy- 
ing,” I said. 

His face flushed. ‘‘ Ah, mademoiselle, I am 
homesick ! I have not seen America for a 
year.” 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


15 


Indeed ? Such a patriotic boy should stay 
at home.” 

“ My mother wished me to finish my educa- 
tion abroad.” 

“ A woman should educate her children in 
the country in which they are to live,” I said, 
irritably. 

“ I guess you’re most old enough to be my 
mother, aren’t you ? ” he replied, gently, and 
with such tenderness of rebuke that I smiled 
irrepressibly. He had delicately intimated that 
if I were his mother I would not care to have 
him discuss me with a stranger. 

I’ve got to learn foreign languages,” he 
said, doggedly. We’ve been here one year ; 
we must stay one more and then go to Italy, 
then to Germany. I’m thankful the English 
haven’t a different language. If they had. I’d 
have to go learn it.” 

“ And after you leave Germany } ” 

After Germany — home ! ” 

He was not a particularly handsome lad, but 
he had beautiful eyes, and at the word home 
they took on such a strange brilliance that I 
gathered up my parasol and books in wondering 
silence. 


1 6 FOR HIS COUNTRY. 

“ I suppose,” he said, soberly, “ that you will 
not be at the Protestant church on Sunday ? ” 

“ Probably I shall.” 

“I don’t see many people from America,” he 
went on, turning his head so far away that I 
could hardly hear what he said. “ There isn’t 
anybody here who cares to talk about it. My 
mother, of course, is too busy,” he added, with 
dignity. 

“ Au revoir, then,” I said, with a smile. 

He stood looking quietly after me, and when 
I got far up the river-bank I turned around. 
He was adjusting a slight difference between 
the footman and the goat ; then, followed by 
the man, he disappeared up one of the quaint 
old streets leading into the heart of the city. 

Close beside me a little old peasant woman, 
gathering sticks, uncurled her stooping figure. 

Bon joiir^ mademoiselle ! You have been talk- 
ing to the American boy.” 

“ Oid^ madameB 

“ It is very sad,” she continued, in the excel- 
lent French spoken by the peasants of the 
Loiret department. He comes by the river 
and declaims. He speaks of Linkum and 
Wash’ton. I watch from my cottage, for my 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


7 


daughter Mathilde is housemaid at Madame 
Greyshield’s, and I hear her talk. Monsieur 
le colonel Greyshield is a grand officer in 
America; but his wife, she is proud. She 
brings her children to France to study. 
She leaves the poor man lonely. This boy is 
most heartbroke. Mathilde says he talks of his 
dear country in his sleep, then he rises early 
to study the foreign languages, so he can more 
quickly go to his home. But he is sick, his 
hand trembles. Mathilde thinks he is going to 
die. I say, ‘ Mathilde, talk to madam e,’ but 
she is afraid, for madame has a will as strong 
as this stout stick. It will never break. It 
must be burnt. Perhaps mademoiselle will 
talk.” 

“ I will, if I get a chance.” 

The old woman turned her brown, leathery 
face toward the blue waters of the Loire. 
“ Mademoiselle, do many French go to America 
for the accent ? ” 

“ No ; they havt too much sense ! ” 

“ It is droll,” she went on, “ how the families 
come here. The gentlemen wander to and fro, 
the ladies occupy themselves with their toilettes. 
Then they travel to other countries. They are 


i8 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


like the leaves on that current. They wander 
they know not whither. I am only a peasant, 
yet 1 can think, and is not one language good 



enough to ask for bread and soup ” And 
muttering and shaking her head, she went on 
gathering her sticks. 

On Sunday I looTced for my American boy. 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


19 


There he was, sitting beside a handsomely 
dressed woman, who looked as if she might in- 
deed have a will like a stout stick. After the 
service he endeavoured to draw her toward me, 
but she did not respond until she saw me 
speaking to a lady of Huguenot descent, to 
whom I had had a letter of introduction. Then 
she approached, and we all went down the 
street together. 

When we reached the boulevard leading to 
my hotel, the boy asked his mother’s permis- 
sion to escort me home. She hesitated, and 
then said, “ Yes ; but do not bore her to death 
with your patriotic rigmaroles.” 

The boy, whose name was Gerald, gave her a 
peculiar glance, and did not open his lips until 
we had walked a block. Then he asked, de- 
liberately, Have you ever thought much of 
that idea of Abraham Lincoln’s that no man is 
good enough to govern another man without 
the other man’s consent ? ” 

“ Yes, a good deal ; yet one must obey.” 

“Yes, one must obey,” he said, quietly. 
“ But sometimes it is puzzling, especially when 
a fellow is growing up.” 

“ How old are you ? ” 


20 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


“ Fourteen.” 

“ Not older ? ” 

“No; I am from California,” and he drew 
himself up. “The boys and girls there are 
large, you know. I have lost twenty pounds 
since we came here. You have never been in 
California, I suppose } ” 

“Yes. I like California.” 

“You do.?” He flashed one swift glance at 
me, then dropped his eyes. 

I politely averted my own, but not before I 
saw two tear-drops splash on the hot, gray 
pavement. 

“If I could see,” he said, presently, “if I 
could see one of those brown hills, just one, — 
this flat country makes me tired.” 

“Can you imagine,” I said, “that I have 
been as homesick in California as you are in 
France .? ” 

“No! no!” he replied, breathlessly. “No, 
I could not imagine that.” 

“That I sailed into San Francisco Bay with 
a heartache because those brown hills you speak 
of so lovingly were not my native hills .? ” 

“ But you are grown up ; you do not need to 
leave your country.” 



“ ‘ I AM FROM CALIFORNIA. 





FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


23 


Our duty sometimes takes us to foreign 
lands. You will be a better soldier some day 
for having had a time of trial and endurance.” 

“ I know it,” he said, under his breath. “ But 
sometimes I think I must break loose, especially 
at night, when the bugles blow.” 

I knew what he meant. At eight o’clock 
every evening, from the various barracks in 
Orleans, the sweet, piercing notes of bugle 
answering bugle could be heard ; and the strain 
was the one played by the American bugles in 
the school that I guessed he had attended. 

‘‘You think of the boys drawn up in line on 
the drill-ground, and the echo behind the hill.” 

“ Do you know Almoda ” he exclaimed, with 
a face as white as a sheet. 

“I do.” 

This was too much for him. We had paused 
at the hotel entrance, and he intended, I knew, 
to take a polite leave of me ; but I had done a 
dangerous thing in conjuring up the old familiar 
scenes, and mumbling something in his throat, 
and giving one tug to his hat, he ran as nimbly 
down the street as if he were a lean coyote 
from the hills of his native State. 

Four weeks later I asked myself why I was 


24 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


lingering in Orleans. I had seen all the sou- 
venirs of Joan of Arc; I had talked with the 
peasants and shopkeepers till I was tired ; I 
agreed thoroughly with my guide-book that Or- 
leans is a city sadly lacking in animation ; and 
yet I stayed on ; I stayed on because I was 
engaged in a bit of character study, I told my 
note-book ; stayed on because my presence af- 
forded some consolation to a struggling, un- 
happy boy, I told my conscience. 

The boy was dying of homesickness. He 
did not enter into the life of the sleepy French 
city. “This is a good enough country,” he 
said, wearily, “ but it isn’t mine. I want 
America, and it seems to me all these priests 
and soldiers and citizens are acting. I can’t 
think they were born speaking French.” 

However, it was only at rare intervals that 
he complained. Away in America he had a 
father who had set the high standard of duty 
before him, — a father who would not encourage 
him to flag. 

On the Fourth of July, Mrs. Grey shield was 
giving a reception — not on account of the day, 
for she had not a spark of patriotism, but be- 
cause she was shortly to leave Orleans for the 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


25 


seashore. Gerald was also giving a reception, 
his a smaller one, prepared for in the face of 
almost insurmountable difficulties, for he re- 
ceived no encouragement from his mother in 
his patriotic schemes. 

His only pleasure in life was in endeavouring 
to make his little brother and sister as patriotic 
as himself, and with ill-concealed dismay he 
confided to me the fear that they were forget- 
ting their native land. 

About the middle of the afternoon I joined 
him and the children in a small, gaily decorated 
arbour at the foot of the garden. Shortly after 
I arrived, Mrs. Greyshield, accompanied by a 
number of her guests, swept down upon us. 
The French officers and their wives and a 
number of English residents surrounded the 
arbour. 

“ Ah, the delicious cakes ! But they are 
not babas and savarins and tartelettes ! They 
must be American ! What do you call this 
kind ? Doughnuts ! How peculiar ! How ef- 
fective the arrangement of the bunting, and 
how many flags — but all of his own country ! ” 

Mrs. Greyshield listened carelessly to the com- 
ments. “ Oh, yes, he is hopelessly provincial. 


26 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


I shall never teach him to be cosmopolitan. 
What do you think of such narrowness, prin- 
cess ^ ” and in veiled admiration she addressed 
her most distinguished guest, who was also 
her friend and countrywoman. 

As Mrs. Greyshield spoke, the American 
princess, who was the possessor of an exceed- 
ingly bitter smile, touched one of the flags with 
caressing fingers. “ It is a long time since I 
have seen one. Your boy has several. I should 
like to have one for a cushion, if he will permit.” 

The boy’s nostrils dilated. “ For a cush- 
ion ! ” he exclaimed. 

His tone was almost disrespectful, and his 
mother gave him a warning glance, and said, 
hastily, “ Certainly, princess. Gerald, choose 
your prettiest flag.” 

“ Not for a cushion ! ” he said, firmly. “ The 
flag should be up, never down ! ” 

The gay group gazed with concealed interest 
at mother and son. 

Mrs. Greyshield seized a flag and offered it 
to her guest. 

“ Thank you — not from you,” said the prin- 
cess, putting up her lorgnette. “Only from 
the boy.” 




FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


29 


He would not give her one. His mother 
was in a repressed rage, and the boy kept his 
eyes bent on the ground in suffering silence. 

The titled lady put an end to the pain- 
ful scene. “ I have changed my mind,” she 
said, coolly. “ I have too many cushions 
now.” 

The boy turned swiftly to her, and, lifting the 
white hand hanging by her side, gently touched 
it with his lips. 

Madame la Princesse^ you, too, love your 
country ! ” 

His exclamation was so enthusiastic, so 
heartfelt, there was in it such a world of com- 
miseration for the titled lady before him, that 
there immediately flashed before each one 
present the unhappy life of the poor princess 
in exile. The boy had started a wave of 
sympathy flowing from one to another of the 
group, and in some confusion they all moved 
away. 

Gerald wiped the perspiration from his fore- 
head, and went on with the programme of pa- 
triotic selections that the impatient children 
were obliged to go through before they could 
have the cakes and fireworks. 


30 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


After the fizzing and bursting noises were 
over, I said, regretfully, “ Gerald, I must go to 
Paris to-morrow.” 

“I have been expecting this,” he said, with 
dogged resignation. “ When you are gone. 
Miss Canada, I shall have no one to talk to me 
about America.” 

I had grown to love the boy for his high 
qualities of mind and soul, and my voice faltered 
as I murmured, “ Do not give up, — fight the 
good fight.” 

“ Of faith,” he added, gravely, “ looking for- 
ward to what is to come.” 

It seemed to me that an old man stood press- 
ing my hand — an old man with life’s experience 
behind him. My heart ached for the lad, and I 
hurried into the house. 

“Good-bye,” I said, coldly, to my hostess. 

“Good-bye, a pleasant journey,” she re- 
sponded, with equal coldness. 

“ If you do not take that boy of yours home, 
you will lose him,” I murmured. 

I thought my voice was low, but it was not 
low enough to escape the ears of the princess, 
who was standing beside her. 

Mrs. Greyshield turned away, and the prin- 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 3 I 

cess’s lips moved almost imperceptibly in the 
words, “ What is the use } ” 

“ The boy is dying by inches ! ” I said, indig- 
nantly. 

“Better dead than like those — ” she said, 
with her bitter smile, nodding toward the chat- 
tering cosmopolitan crowd beyond us. 

I echoed the boy’s words: “You, too, are a 
patriot ! ” 

“ I was,” she said, gravely, and sauntered away. 

I went unhappily to Paris. Would that 
another stranger could chance along, to whom 
the boy might unburden his heart, — his noble 
heart, filled not only with dreams of military 
glory, but of plans for the protection of the 
weak and helpless among his countrymen ! 

A week later a telegram from the princess 
summoned me to Orleans. To my surprise, 
she met me on the staircase of Mrs. Grey- 
shield’s house. 

“You are right!” she whispered. “Mrs. 
Greyshield is to lose her boy I ” 

My first feeling was one of anger. “ Do not 
speak of such a thing I ” I said, harshly. 

“ Come and see,” and she led the way to a 
room where the weary-faced lad lay on a huge, 


32 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


canopied bed, a nursing sister on either side of 
him. 

“The doctors are in consultation below,” she 
murmured ; “but there is no hope.” 



“ Where is his mother } ” 

“In her room. She sees no one. It is a 
foreign fashion, you know. She is suffering 
deeply — at last.” 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


33 


“ Oh, this is horrible ! ” I said. “ Can noth- 
ing be done ? ” 

“ Do you observe what a perfect accent he 
has.?” she said, meditatively. “There must 
be excellent teachers at the fycee / ” 

From the bed came occasionally muttered 
scraps of French prose or poetry, and I shud- 
dered as I listened. 

“ Sacrificed for an accent ! ” she went on to 
herself. “ It is a favourite amusement of Ameri- 
can mothers. This boy was torn from a father 
whom he worshipped. I wonder what he will 
say when his wife returns to America with two 
living children and one — ” She turned to me. 
“I could have told her that growing children 
should not be hurried from one country to 
another. Yet it is better this way than the 
other.” 

“The other.? ” I repeated, stupidly. 

“ Yes, the other, — after years of residence 
abroad, no home, no country, no attachments, a 
weary traveller till one dies. I thought you 
might like to see him, as you were so attracted 
by him. He fainted the day you left, and has 
been this way ever since. It cannot last much 
longer.” 


34 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


We had been speaking in a low tone, yet our 
voices must have been heard by the sleeper, for 
suddenly he turned his head on the pillow and 
looked at us. 

The princess approached him, and murmured 
his name in an exquisitely soft and gentle voice. 
The boy recognised her. 

‘‘Ah, the princess!” he said, collectedly. 
“ May I trouble you with a message ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ It is for papa,” he said, dreamily. “ Will 
you tell him for me, please — ” Here his 
voice died away, and his dark, beseeching eyes 
rolled from one to another of the people in 
the room. 

“ Shall I send them away ? ” asked the prin- 
cess. 

“ No, thank you. It is only the pain. Will 
you — will you be good enough to tell papa not 
to think me a coward ? I promised him to hold 
out, but — ” 

“ I will tell him.” 

“And tell him Tm sorry we couldn’t build 
that home and live together, but I think if 
he prepared it mamma and the children might 
go. Tell him I think they would be happier. 


FOR HFS COUNTRY. 35 

America is so lovely ! Mamma would get used 
to it.” 

He stopped, panting for breath, and one of 
the nurses put something on his lips, while the 
other wiped away the drops of moisture that 
the effort of speaking had brought to his 
spectral face. Then he closed his eyes, and 
his pallid figure seemed to be sinking away 
from us ; but presently he roused himself, and 
this time his glance fell on me. 

“ Miss Canada,” he said, drowsily, the salute 
to the flag — Dottie and Howard.” 

The princess motioned to one of the nurses, 
who slipped from the room and presently re- 
turned with the children. A wan, evanescent 
flush overspread his face at sight of the flag, 
and he tried to raise himself on his elbow. One 
of the nurses supported him, and he fixed his 
glazing but still beautiful eyes on the children. 
‘‘Are you ready ? ” 

The small boy and girl were far from realising 
their brother’s condition, but they knew what 
he wished, and in a warbling voice little Dottie 
began : 

“ This is my country’s flag, and I am my country’s child, 
To love and serve her well will ever be my joy.” 


36 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


A little farther on her tiny brother took up 
the formula which it had been Gerald’s pleasure 
to teach them. 



The consultation below had broken up, and 
several of the doctors had crept to the door of 
the room, but the boy did not seem to notice 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


37 


them. His attention was riveted on the children, 
to the exclusion of all others. 

Give brother the flag ! ” he murmured, 
when they finished. 

They handed him the Stars and Stripes, but 
he could not retain it, and the princess, quietly 
moving to the bedside, steadied it between his 
trembling fingers. 

** Now sing with brother.” 

The two children lifted up their little qua- 
vering voices, and turning his own face to the 
ceiling, a face illumined by a joy not of this 
world, he tried to sing with them : 

“ My country ! ’tis of thee, 

Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing ! ” 

Here his voice faltered, his radiant face 
drooped, and his darkening eyes turned be- 
seechingly in my direction. 

In a choking voice I finished the verse, as I 
had once before finished it for him : 

“ Land where my fathers died. 

Land of the pilgrims’ pride. 

From every mountainside 
Let freedom ring ! ” 


38 


FOR HIS COUNTRY. 


His head was on the pillow when I finished, 
but his fingers still grasped the flag. 

“Gerald,” said the princess, tenderly, “do 
you understand ? ” 

“Yes, I understand,” fluttered from his pale 
lips. 

“ And are you contented .? ” 

He pressed her hand slightly. 

“ Would you rather die, or live to grow up and 
forget your country, as you surely would do if 
you lived all your young life among strangers } ” 

“ I would rather die ! ” and here his voice was 
so firm that all in the room heard it. 

“Dottie and Howard!” he murmured, pres- 
ently, and the princess drew back. After all, 
she was only a stranger. 

He died, with their little faces pressed close 
to his own. “Give my love to mamma, dear 
mamma I ” were his last words. Shortly after 
the nurses drew the children away. The boy 
had had his wish. He had died for his country 
as truly as if he had fallen in battle. 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW 




GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


When I was a little girl I lived with my 
grandmother, and a gay, lively little grand- 
mother she was. Away back in the family 
was French blood, and I am sure that she re- 
sembled French old people, who are usually 
vivacious and cheerful. On my twelfth birth- 
day I v^as driving with her through a thick 
wood, when we heard in front of us the loud 
shouting and laughing of boys. 

Drive on, George,” said my grandmother; 
“let us see what this is all about.” 

As soon as he stopped, she sprang nimbly 
from the phaeton among half-a-dozen flushed 
and excited boys who had stones in their hands. 
Up in the tall trees above them were dozens of 
crows, which were cawing in a loud and dis- 
tressed manner, and flying restlessly from branch 
41 


42 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


to branch. A stone thrown by some boy with 
too true an aim had brought a fine young crow 
to the ground. 

“Ha — I’ve got him. Thought I’d bring 
him down ! ” yelled a lad, triumphantly. “ Now 
give it to him, boys.” 

The stones flew thick and fast at the poor 
crow. My grandmother screamed and waved 
her hands, but the boys would not listen to her 
until she rushed to the phaeton, seized the 
whip, and began smartly slashing those bad 
boys about the legs. 

“ Hi — stop that — you hurt ! Here, some 
of you fellows take the whip from her ! ” cried 
the boys, dancing like wild Indians around my 
grandmother. 

“Cowards!” she said; “if you must fight, 
why don’t you attack something your own 
size ^ ” 

The boys slunk away, and she picked up the 
crow. One of its wings was broken, and its 
body was badly bruised. She wrapped the 
poor bleeding thing in our lap-robe, and told 
George to drive home. 

“ Another pet, grandmother ? ” I asked. 

“Yes, Elizabeth,” she returned, “if it lives.” 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


43 


She had already eight canaries, some tame 
snakes, a pair of doves, an old dog, white mice 
and rats, and a tortoise. 

When we got home, she examined the crow’s 
injuries, then sponged his body with water, and- 
decided that his wing was so badly broken that 
it would have to be amputated. I held his 
head and feet while she performed the surgi- 
cal operation, and he squawked most dismally. 
When it was over, she offered him bread 
and milk, which he did not seem able to 
eat until she pushed the food down his throat 
with her slim little fingers. Then he opened 
and closed his beak repeatedly, like a person 
smacking his lips. 

“He may recover,” she said, with delight; 
“ now, where is he to sleep ? Come into the 
garden, Elizabeth.” 

Our garden was walled in. There was a 
large kennel on a grass-plot under my grand- 
mother’s bedroom window, and she stopped in 
front of it. 

“This can be fitted up for the crow, Eliza- 
beth.” 

“ But what about Rover ? ” I said. Where 
will he sleep ? ” 


44 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


“Down in the cellar, by the furnace,” she 
said. “He is getting to be rheumatic, and I 
owe him a better shelter than this in his old 
age. I shall have a window put in at the back, 
so that the sun can shine in.” 

For several days the crow sat in the kennel, 
his wings raised, — the stump of the broken 
one was left, — making him look like a person 
shrugging his shoulders, and the blood thicken- 
ing and healing over his wounds. Three times 
a day my grandmother dragged him out and 
pushed some bread and milk down his throat ; 
and three times a day he kicked and struggled 
and clawed at her hands. But it soon became 
plain that he was recovering. 

One day my grandmother found him trying 
to feed himself, and she was as much pleased 
as a child would have been. The next day he 
stepped out on the grass-plot. There he found 
a fine porcelain bath, that my grandmother 
had bought for him. It was full of warm 
water, and he stepped into it, flapped his wing 
with pleasure, and threw the water over his 
body. 

“ He is coming on ! ” cried my grandmother ; 
“ he will be the joy of my life yet.” 



SAW SECOND COUSIN GEORGE FOLLOWING HIM 


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GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


47 


“ What about Second Cousin George ? ” I 
asked. 

Second Cousin George — we had to call him 
that to distinguish him from old George, the 
coachman — was a relative that lived with us. 
He was old, cranky, poor, and a little weak- 
minded, and if it had not been for my grand- 
mother he would have been obliged to go to an 
almshouse. He hated everything in the world 
except himself, — pets especially, — and if he 
had not been closely watched, I think he would 
have put an end to some of the creatures that 
my grandmother loved. 

One day after the crow was able to walk 
about the garden, I saw Second Cousin George 
following him. I could not help laughing, for 
they were so much alike. They both were fat 
and short, and dressed in black. Both put 
their feet down in an awkward manner, carried 
their heads on one side, and held themselves 
back as they walked. They had about an equal 
amount of sense. 

In some respects, though, the crow was a 
little ahead of Second Cousin George, and in 
some respects he was not, for on this occasion 
Second Cousin George was making a kind of 


48 GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 

death-noose for him, and the crow walked 
quietly behind the currant-bushes, never sus- 
pecting it. I ran for grandmother, and she 
slipped quickly out into the garden. 

Second Cousin George, what are you doing.?” 
she said, quietly. 

He always looked up at the sky when he 
didn’t know what to say, and as she spoke, he 
eyed very earnestly some white clouds that 
were floating overhead, and said never a 
word. 

“ Were you playing with this cord ? ” said 
grandmother, taking it from him. “ What a 
fine loop you have in it ! ” She threw it dex- 
terously over his head. “ Oh, I have caught 
you ! ” she said, with a little laugh, and began 
pulling on the string. 

Second Cousin George still stood with his 
face turned up to the sky, his cheeks growing 
redder and redder. 

“Why, I am choking you!” said grand- 
mother, before she had really hurt him ; “ do 
let me unfasten it.” Then she took the string 
off his neck and put it in her pocket. “ Crows 
can feel pain just as men do. Second Cousin 
George,” she said, and walked away. 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 49 

Second Cousin George never molested the 
crow again. 

After a few weeks the crow became very 
tame, and took possession of the garden. He 
dug worms from our choicest flower-beds, nipped 
off the tops of growing plants, and did them 
far more damage than Rover the dog. But my 
grandmother would not have him checked in 
anything. 

“ Poor creature ! ” she said, sympathetically, 
“ he can never fly again ; let him get what 
pleasure he can out of life.” 

I was often sorry for him when the pigeons 
passed overhead. He would flap his one long, 
beautiful wing, and his other poor stump of a 
thing, and try to raise himself from the ground, 
crying, longingly, “ Caw ! Caw ! ” 

Not being able to fly, he would go quite over 
the garden in a series of long hops, — that is, 
after he learned to guide himself. At first 
when he spread his wings to help his jumps, 
the big wing would swing him around so that 
his tail would be where he had expected to find 
his head. 

Many a time have I stood laughing at his 
awkward attempts to get across the garden to 


50 GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 

grandmother, when she went out with some 
bits of raw meat for him. She was his favour- 
ite, the only one that he would allow to come 
near him or to stroke his head. 

He cawed with pleasure whenever he saw 
her at any of the windows, and she was the 
only one- that he would answer at all times. 
I often vainly called to him, “Hallo, Jim Crow, 



— hallo!” but the instant grandmother said, 
“Good Jim Crow — good Jim!” he screamed 
in recognition. 

He had many skirmishes with the dog over 
bones. Rover was old and partly blind, and 
whenever Jim saw him with a bone he went up 
softly behind him and nipped his tail. As 
Rover always turned and snapped at him, Jim 
would seize the bone and run away with it, and 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


5 


Rover would go nosing blindly about the gar- 
den trying to find him. They were very good 
friends, however, apart from the bones, and 
Rover often did good service in guarding the 
crow. 

The cats in the neigh- 
bourhood of course learned 
that there was an injured 
bird in our garden, and I 
have seen as many as six 
at a time sitting on the top 
of the wall looking down at 
him. The instant Jim saw 
one he would give a peculiar 
cry of alarm that he kept for 
the cats alone. Rover 
knew this cry, and spring- 
ing up would 


the wall, bark- 
and frighten- 
away, though 
could have 





rush toward 
ing angrily, 
ing the cats 
he never 
seen them 
well enough 

to catch them. 

Jim detested not cats 
alone, but every strange 


52 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


face, every strange noise, and every strange 
creature, — boys most of all. If one of them 
came into the garden he would run to his 
kennel in a great fright. Now this dislike of 
Jim’s for strange noises saved some of my 
grandmother’s property, and also two people 
who might otherwise have gone completely to 
the bad. 

About midnight, one dark November night, 
my grandmother and I were sleeping quietly, — 
she in her big bed, and I in my little one 
beside her. The room was a very large one, 
and our beds were opposite a French window, 
which stood partly open, for my grandmother 
liked to have plenty of fresh air at night. Under 
this window was Jim’s kennel. 

I was having a very pleasant dream, when 
in the midst of it I heard a loud, Caw ! Caw ! ” 
I woke, and found that my grandmother was 
turning over sleepily in bed. 

“ That’s the crow’s cat call,” she murmured ; 
<‘but cats could never get into that kennel.” 

“ Let me get up and see,” I said. 

“No, child,” she replied. Then she reached 
out her hand, scratched a match, and lighted the 
big lamp that stood on the table by her bed. 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 53 

I winked my eyes, — the room was almost as 
bright as day, and there, half-way through the 
window, was George, our old coachman. His 
head was in the room ; his feet must have been 
resting on the kennel, his expression was con- 
fused, and he did not seem to know whether 
to retreat or advance. 

“ Come in, George,” said my grandmother, 
gravely. 

He finished crawling through the window, 
and stood looking dejectedly down at his stock- 
ing feet. 

“What does this mean, George.^” said my 
grandmother, ironically. “ Are you having 
nightmare, and did you think we might wish 
to go for a drive ? ” 

Old George never liked to be laughed at. 
He drew himself up. “ I’m a burglar, missus,” 
he said, with dignity. 

My grandmother’s bright, black eyes twinkled 
under the lace frills of her nightcap. “ Oho, 
are you indeed.? Then you belong to a danger- 
ous class, — one to which actions speak louder 
than words,” she said, calmly ; and putting one 
hand under her pillow, she drew out something 
that I had never known she kept there. 


54 GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 

I thought at the”" time it was a tiny, shining 
revolver, but it really was a bit of polished water- 
pipe with a faucet attached ; for my grandmother 
did not approve of the use of firearms. 

“ Oh, missus, don’t shoot — don’t shoot ! I 
ain’t fit to die,” cried old George, dropping on 
his knees. 

“ I quite agree with you,” she said, coolly, 
laying down her pretended revolver, “ and I am 
glad you have some rag of a conscience left. 
Now tell me who put you up to this. Some 
woman. I’ll warrant you ! ” 

^‘Yes, missus, it was,” he said, shamefacedly, 
“’twas Polly Jones, — she that you discharged 
for impudence. She said that she’d get even 
with you, and if I’d take your watch and chain 
and diamond ring, and some of your silver, that 
we’d go to Boston, and she’d — she’d — ” 

“Well,” said grandmother, tranquilly, “she 
would do what ? ” 

“ She said she’d marry me,” sheepishly whis- 
pered the old man, hanging his head. 

“ Marry you indeed, old simpleton ! ” said my 
grandmother, dryly. “ She’d get you to Boston, 
fleece you well, and that’s the last you’d see of 
her. Where is Miss Polly ? ” 



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GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 5/ 

In — in the stable/’ whimpered the old 
man. 

“ H’m,” said grandmother, waiting for the 
plunder, eh ? Well, make haste. My purse is 
in the upper drawer, my watch you see before 
you ; here is my diamond ring, and my spoons 
you have in your pocket.” 

Old George began to cry, and counted every 
spoon he had in his pocket out on the bureau 
before him, saying one, two, three, four, and so 
on, through his tears. 

“ Stop ! ” said my grandmother. Put them 
back.” 

The old man looked at her in astonishment. 
She made him return every spoon to his pocket. 
Then she ordered him to hang the watch round 
his neck, put the ring on his finger, and the 
purse in his pocket. 

‘‘Take them out to the stable,” she said, 
sternly ; “ sit and look at them for the rest of 
the night. If you want to keep them by eight 
o’clock in the morning, do so, — if not, bring 
them to me. And as for Miss Polly, send her 
home the instant you set foot outside there, and 
tell her from me that if she doesn’t come to see 
me to-morrow afternoon she may expect to have 


58 GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 

the town’s officers after her as an accomplice in 
a burglary. Now be off, or that crow will alarm 
the household. Not by the door, old George, 
that’s the way honest people go out. Oh, 
George, George, that a carrion crow should 
be more faithful to me than you ! ” 

My grandmother lay for some time wide- 
awake, and I could hear the bed shaking with 
her suppressed laughter. Then she would sigh, 
and murmur, “Poor, deluded creatures ! ” 

Finally she dropped off to sleep, but I lay 
awake for the rest of the night, thinking over 
what had taken place, and wondering whether 
Polly Jones would obey my grandmother. 

I was with her the next day when Polly was 
announced. Grandmother had been having 
callers, and was sitting in the drawing-room 
looking very quaint and pretty in her black 
velvet dress and tiny lace cap. 

Polly, a bouncing country-girl, came in hang- 
ing her head. Grandmother sat up very straight 
on the sofa and asked, “ Would you like to go 
to the penitentiary, Polly Jones ? ” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am ! ” gasped Polly. 

“Would you like to come and live with me 
for awhile } ” said my grandmother. 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 5 9 

Now Polly did not want to do this, but she 
knew that she must fall in with my grand- 
mother’s plans ; so she hung her head a little 
lower and whispered, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Very well, then,” my grandmother said, “go 
and get your things.” 

The next day my grandmother called to her 
the cook, the housemaid, and the small boy that 
ran errands. 

“You have all worked faithfully,” she said, 
“and I am going to give you a holiday. Here 
is some money for you, and do not let me see 
you again for a month. Polly Jones is going to 
stay with me.” 

Polly stayed with us, and worked hard for a 
month. 

“ You are a wicked girl,” said my grand- 
mother to her, “and you want discipline. You 
have been idle, and idleness is the cause of half 
the mischief in the world. But I will cure you.” 

Polly took her lesson very meekly, and when 
the other maids came home, grandmother took 
her on a trip to Boston. There she got a 
policeman to take them about and show them 
how some of the wicked people of the city 
lived. Among other places visited was a prison. 


6o 


GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. 


and when Polly saw young women like herself 
behind the bars, she broke down and begged 
grandmother to take her home. And that 
reformed Polly effectually. 

As for old George, after that one miserable 
night in the stable, and his utter contrition in 
the morning, he lived only for grandmother, and 
died looking lovingly in her face. 

Jim the crow ruled the house as well as the 
garden after his exploit in waking grandmother 
that eventful night. 

All this happened some years ago. My dear 
grandmother is dead now, and I live in her 
house. Jim missed her terribly when she died, 
but I tried so earnestly to cultivate his affec- 
tions, and to make up his loss to him, that I 
think he is really getting to be fond of me. 


THE END. 


L. C. Page 8c Company’s 


Cosy Corner Series 

OF 

Charming Juveniles 


Each one volume^ J6mo, cloth. Illustrated, 50 cents 


Ole Mammy^s Torment. By Annie Fellows-Johnston. 
Author of “ The Little Colonel,” etc. 

The Little Colonel. By Annie Fellows-Johnston. 
Author of “ Big Brother.” 

Big Brother. By Annie Fellows-Johnston. 

Author of “ The Little Colonel,” etc. 

The Gate of the Giant Scissors. By Annie Fellows- 
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Author of “ The Little Colonel,” etc. 

Two Little Knights of Kentucky, who w^ere “The Little 
Colonel’s ” neighbors. By Annie Fellows-Johnston. 
A sequel to “ The Little Colonel.” 

The Story of Dago. By Annie Fellows-Johnston. 
Author of “ The Little Colonel,” etc. 

Farmer Brown and the Birds. By Frances Margaret 
Fox. A little story which teaches children that the birds 
are man’s best friends. 


Cosy Corner Series — Continued. 

For His Country. By Marshall Saunders. 

A beautiful story of a patriotic little American lad. 

A Little Puritan's First Christmas. By Edith Robinson. 

A Little Daughter of Liberty. By Edith Robinson. 

Author of “A i.oyal Little Maid,” “A Little Puritan 
Rebel,” etc. 

A true story of the Revolution. 

A Little Puritan Rebel. By Edith Robinson. 

An historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the 
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in which the child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders im- 
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DE LA Ramee (Ouida). 

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Written fifty years or more ago, this little fairy tale soon 
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It has been out of print for some time, and is now offered 
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The Young King. The Star Child. 

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A Great Emergency. By Mrs. Ewing. 

The Trinity Flower. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 

In this little volume are collected three of Mrs. Ewing’s 
best short stories for the young people. 


Cosy Corner Series — Continued. 

The Adventures of Beatrice and Jessie* By Richard 
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A bright and amusing story of the strange adventures of 
two little girls in the “ realms of unreality.” 

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Little King Davie. By Nellie Hellis. 

It is sufficient to say of this book that it has sold over 
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Little Peterkin Vandike. By Charles Stuart Pratt. 

The author’s dedication furnishes a key to this charming 
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“ I dedicate this book, made for the amusement of the 
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The Making of Zimri Bunker. A Tale of Nantucket. 
By W. J. Long. 

The story deals with a sturdy American fisher lad during 
the war of 1812. 

The Fortunes of the Fellow. By Will Allen Drom- 
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The FarriePs Dog and His Fellow. By Will Allen 
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This story, written by the gifted young Southern woman, 
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Cosy Comer Series — Continued. 

Story of a Short Life* By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 

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Jackanapes* By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 

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A delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures 
by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. 

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His Little Mother* By Miss Mulock. 

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“ Little Sunshine ” is another of those beautiful child- 
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Wee Dorothy* By Laura Updegraff. 

A story of two orphan children, the tender devotion of the 
eldest, a boy, for his sister being its theme. 

Rab and His Friends. By Dr. John Brown. 

Doctor Brown’s little masterpiece is too well known to 
need description. 

The Water People* By Charles Lee Sleight. 

Relating the further adventures of “ Harry,” the little hero 
of “ The Prince of the Pin Elves.” 

The Prince of the Pin Elves* By Chas. Lee Sleight. 

A fascinating story of the underground adventures of a 
sturdy, reliant American boy among the elves and 
gnomes. 

Helena^s Wonderworld. By Frances Hodges White. 

A delightful tale of the adventures of a little girl in the 
mysterious regions beneath the sea. 


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